Two Across
by Six31
Summary: When Nathan Explosion needs a little help, there's only one man he'd turn to.


**Title:** Two Across  
**Author:** Six31  
**Summary:** When Nathan needs help, there's only one man he'd turn to.  
**Rating:** T  
**Warnings:** A little bit of salty language; a lot of word-nerdity  
**Pairings:** Nathan/Charles friendship  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters, nor do I profit from this.  
**Author Notes:** Written for brutalbusiness's Games Are Brutal theme. Crossword puzzles are games, right?

It wasn't widely known even among the residents of Mordhaus, but Charles Foster Ofdensen liked to sleep in on Sunday mornings. His usual punctual nature was shed in favor of a few extra hours of shut-eye; it's a habit he developed shortly after loosening his tie to occasionally join the boys for a night of sloppy drinking. The CFO valued every piece of time he had to himself, even in his unconsciousness. But managing Dethklok was a 24-hour enterprise, and no matter how valuable his solitude, he knew he had to be ready the second a crisis emerged. So it was with no surprise and considerable consternation that he was roused from a sound sleep by the ringing of his bedside phone at the ripe hour of 6:30 in the morning.

"Lord Explosion has requested your presence in his private chambers, sir," said the Klokateer on the other end of the line.

"Is everything all right?"

"I don't know, sir. He asked for you specifically."

With an irritated sigh, Charles threw on his robe and began the long trek to the boys' quarters on the other side of Mordhaus. What would it be this time, he wondered. Autoerotic mutilation? Supermodel OD'd in his bed? Neolithic superstition made manifest by stolen lyrical inspiration? One never knew what one would get into when it came to Dethklok.

The Haus was quiet at this hour. Charles shambled down the empty corridor, still a tad bleary-eyed, idly wiping the sleep from beneath his glasses. When he reached his destination, he briefly knocked on the door more or less to announce his presence before barging right in, pausing at the threshold.

Nathan Explosion didn't appear to be in any peril. He found the front man sitting up in bed, holding a section of newspaper folded in quarters. The singer glared at him over the top of his reading glasses.

"You, uh, wanted to see me, Nathan?" Charles asked.

"Yeah," said Nathan gruffly, glancing down at the paper in his hand. "What's a 6-letter word for 'thrusting sword'?"

Charles blinked. Of the many scenarios he envisioned Nathan Explosion requiring his assistance at such an ungodly hour, this was not one of them.

"Seriously?"

Nathan's stubby finger bounced across the newspaper page. "Nope. Too many letters."

Charles didn't have the presence of mind this early to conceal his eye-roll. "Try 'rapier.'"

Nathan plucked an unseen black ballpoint pen from behind his ear and began filling in the word, head nodding at the newfound knowledge. "Sweet," he said.

"Is that the only reason you called me up here?"

"No."

"Then what do you need?"

He glanced back down at the puzzle in front of him. "I need a 7-letter word for 'rank between duke and earl.' Only it's gotta end in an 'S.'"

Charles' hand rubbed idly over his own forehead in a vain attempt to stave off the burgeoning headache.

"Marquis," he finally said. "Nathan, I'm really tired..."

"How do you spell that?"

"M-A-R-Q-U-I-S."

"Wow, you're really good at this," Nathan said as he inked the letters into the boxes.

"Can I please go back to bed now?" Charles pleaded. Pleading was not in his nature, but then again, neither was sleep depravation.

"Hold on, hold on," said Nathan. "Just one more. Here, you'll probably know this one: 'Italian pomace brandy.'"

Charles heaved a heavy sigh. "Grappa."

Nathan studied the crossword puzzle intently, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. "Nah, that's not it."

"It's spelled with two Ps."

"I got blank, blank, A, blank, L, blank."

"Huh?" asked Charles, a quizzical look creeping across his face. "That can't be right. I know I'm right on this one."

Nathan once again peered over the top of his glasses and shrugged. "I guess you don't know everything."

"Let me see it." He crossed into the cavernous room and made his way to the oversized four-poster bed. With no shortage of awkwardness, he climbed in, crawling on his hands and knees to reach the hulking form in the center. Nathan grabbed a black satin pillow the size of a mini fridge and plopped it haphazardly next to him. Charles took his place against it. "Give it here," he said, taking the pen and sheet of paper from the front man.

To his credit, Nathan had done a fine job of completing a good three-quarters of the crossword with large, black block letters and only a few hasty scratch-outs. The lower left quadrant remained, along with the occasional blank box. Charles tucked his legs under him and held the paper on his knee, where the light was better.

"Ok, first, 'rapier' isn't spelled like that," he said as he tried to change a 'Y' into an 'I.' "Why are you doing this in pen?"

The singer shrugged. "Pencil is for pussies."

"And second, 'plebeians' were the low social caste of Ancient Rome." Charles gave Nathan a sidelong glance over the top of his glasses. "Not 'lesbeians.'"

"Seriously?" said Nathan, a faint blush crossing his cheeks at his mistake. "It totally fit."

"Maybe, but it doesn't even make sense."

"Well, I just thought ... you know ... Rome was all about, uh ... gay guys ... and lesbians ... weren't ..." he trailed off into a series of murmurs.

Charles couldn't help but smirk as he changed the offending letters. He placed the puzzle and pen back into Nathan's lap. "Now 'grappa' fits. If that's all, I really need to get back to bed." He tried to climb off the massive bed.

"Oh no you don't," growled Nathan, snaking a giant arm around his escaping manager. "Listen, I have never, ever finished one of these fucking things in my life. Never." He pulled the CFO back onto the pillow by his side. "Look how close I am. I've never been that close to actually winning. So you're gonna stay here and help me, got it?"

Charles was too tired to fight back, or even put up much of an argument. And there was something in Nathan's eyes, an excitement and an inquisitive nature not usually put on display. He had asked for Charles' help because he knew he wouldn't be rebuffed or made fun of. And far be it for Charles to dissuade the man's more academic pursuits.

"Fine," he said, straightening his legs and nestling back into the giant pillow. "What else you got?"

"Hmm," mused Nathan as he scanned over his handiwork. "... There's a few more I'm not sure are right."

"Like what?"

"Like what is a 'manisan?'"

Charles picked his head up slightly. "Excuse me?"

"You know," repeated Nathan. "A 'manisan.'" He held the puzzle in front of Charles' face. "It's 24-down."

He strained slightly to read the clue. It read "No ______ island." He stifled a slight grin.

"Man. Is. An. It's a phrase. 'No man is an island, entire of itself.' John Donne," he stated.

"Oh," said Nathan, rolling the phrase around in his head. "They can do that? Put a string of words together like that?"

"Well, they have to. That's the only way to fill up some of the larger answers." Charles sidled a little further down into the gamey black satin sheets and closed his eyes. The pillow seemed to be made up of equal parts goose down, memory foam and tractor beam. Nathan continued to scan the puzzle for more tricks and traps.

"Here, this one looks like a phrase, too. 'Throw a foe out the window.' It's got 1, 2, 3, 4 ... hmm ... 12 blanks. 'Throw a foe...'"

"Defenestrate," Charles said, barely stirring.

Nathan's jaw dropped, dumbfounded. "Shut up. You just made that up."

"Oh no, I assure you, it's real." Charles got ahold of a corner of blanket, pulling it slightly toward himself. "And it hurts like hell."

"Aww, I fucking love the English language!" From under a nearby pillow, he pulled out a small tape recorder and began growling into it. "Aviation! Humiliation! DEFENESTRATION!"

"Sounds like a number one hit," Charles offered lazily.

"Hey, shut up, these are my notes." Nathan chucked the tape recorder back onto the other side of the bed. Only a handful of boxes remained in the puzzle, and the singer felt no small amount of glee as he wrote in a few more answers completely on his own. He was so engrossed in his handiwork, he barely noticed the manager slowly inching the blanket a little higher up to his chin.

"Ok, here's one: 'Top corporate money manager, abbr.' What the hell is an abbr?"

"Abbreviation," Charles half-said and half-yawned.

"Oh. Right. Kinda stupid to abbreviate ... the word ... abbreviation." He tapped the pen to the puzzle. "Ok, top corporate ... hmm ... manager ... I think ... man, why's that sound so familiar ..."

Nathan could feel the smaller body next to him begin to shudder lightly. He peered down to find the manager attempting to hide a small-scale giggle fit. "What's so funny?"

"Chief. Financial. Officer," said Charles. "CFO."

"Oh. OH! Right, duh!" Nathan filled in the letters. "Hey, like, you're like the CFO of us."

"Mmmhmm."

"And like, your name is CFO. Ofdensen. Charles Foster Ofdensen."

"Mmmhmm."

"Huh. Why'd I never notice that before?"

"Mmm."

Looking down at his CFO, who had managed to bury himself almost completely in most of the linens within arm's reach, Nathan felt a small pang of guilt. Charles was always there for them, no matter how dangerous or serious or petty the request. It felt, well, it felt like a dick move to wake him up just to pick his brain on something so frivolous. He was a good sport though; he always was. And even if they never said so, he and the rest of the band appreciated it. Nathan really hoped that Charles knew that.

"Hey, Eartha Kitt played Catwoman, right?" asked Nathan.

But it was too late. The manager had petered out entirely, his head resting mostly on the monstrous pillow beneath him, but partly against Nathan's hip. Deep down in his heart, Nathan knew it would be wrong to wake him a second time. Charles deserved his Sunday rest. As gingerly as he could, Nathan lifted the glasses off the sleeping man's face and, noticing he couldn't reach the bedside table without disturbing Charles, placed them atop his own head for safekeeping. There would always be next Sunday to finally finish a puzzle.

For now, he'd try his hand at the Jumble.


End file.
